Emily French - Illusion

She heard her own footsteps echo on the marble hallway. They seemed to echo very loudly. At the kitchen door, Sophy paused, straining to pick out any movement. A slender, uncertain little figure, she stared wide-eyed into the gloom. Relief flowed through her as she recognized the tall figure and gleaming head of her husband.

A wide smile lit her face. She was too delighted to do anything but exclaim breathlessly, “Seth! I didn’t know you were back!”

In the dim light, Seth’s elegant broadcloth suit glimmered richly like polished obsidian, and his crisp white linen shirt created an illusory pedestal on which rested the chiseled form of his handsome head.

“Didn’t you?” A trace of amusement flitted over his face at the obvious pleasure she did not know she had betrayed. “You must have missed me, to greet me so enthusiastically,” he added softly, indicating the silver weapon still clutched in Sophy’s hand.

Self-consciously, Sophy thrust the candlestick onto one of the kitchen benches. “I thought it was a nocturnal intruder.” The words came out in an unsteady rush.

“You look...mussed. Did I waken you?” As he moved toward her, his halting stride unhurried, his face was shadowed.

Sophy cared little for his words, only his presence. She smoothed her hair, feeling such a flood of warmth and pleasure that she felt weak. “It doesn’t matter. Welcome back.” Her voice was shy as she gave him her hand.

Seth’s jaw muscles went tight. In dishabille, her feet bare and with her hair flowing like a length of ebony silk about her shoulders, his wife looked very young and very fragile. Like a drop of morning dew waiting for the sun. The illusion of sweet, trembling innocence was heightened by her demure, white cotton negligee, trimmed with broderie anglaise.

Mildly irritated, he realized something about his pixiefaced wife had gotten to him. The determined lift of her chin, the mouth wide and ready to smile, the sweet clarity of her eyes drew him.

Curse her. Curse her. Curse her. She had already stripped him of his pride, his self-respect. Never in his life had he envisaged marrying a woman for her money, or having a wife who was richer than himself.

He had to be strong, or he was in danger of losing his honor, as well. The answer was simple. He must overcome this weakness induced by a pair of guileless dawn gray eyes and three years’ abstinence. Resist the temptation to press himself against her, beg her to let him make love to her.

He took a slow, steadying breath. Hell, where had that idea come from? It put him off-balance. He smiled in selfderision, taking her hand to his lips in a practiced, masculine gesture.

“It is nice to be back, Mrs. Weston.” His voice was low and thick.

Sophy’s brain was awhirl with delicious confusion. She had forgotten the sound of his voice, the low but distinct quality that seemed to intimate much more than the simple words he spoke.

It shook her to her core. She trembled involuntarily, and she could not think why. “I daresay you are tired after the rail journey from Chicago,” she heard herself say, still somewhat unsure of herself.

He let go of her hand and bowed slightly, as if he were a mechanical doll. “I am, a trifle.”

His voice was dry, but before Sophy had time to dwell on it, he had adroitly changed the subject by asking about the possibility of getting a hot drink.

Sophy studied Seth in silence for a moment, noting the tautness of weariness around his mouth and the shadowed hollows over tired eyes. A rush of compassion made her forget his neglect, whether it was real or fancied, and want to assuage that utter exhaustion glimpsed in his face.

She struck a match and lit the gaslight, adjusting the jet on the wall sconce, an air of sudden determination in her eyes. “Sit down and make yourself comfy. I’ll make some coffee.”

His brows went up. “Here?”

“It’ll only take me a minute to make some. Would you like something to eat? Some cold meat? An omelet?”

“You can cook?”

He made a faint curl of his mouth, not quite a smile, but not quite an insult. Sophy’s answering grin was both taunting and triumphant.

“I’m not just a wealthy heiress. Not only can I cook, but I’ve a talent for organizing business affairs. I am a master when it comes to keeping accounts and I have a gift for solving riddles and puzzle. That’s how I know you’re hungry now.”

She pertly tilted her head to one side, studying him, her eyes wide with a quaint mixture of concern and eagerness in their depths. Their message all but shattered his reserve, and her gamine smile touched a place within him that no one had touched for a long time.

Seth felt as though he had received a blow. He felt the impact deep in his body, and winced. It was as if something vital had disintegrated inside him, collapsed in on itself, solidified and condensed in his loins, taking what he had of himself with it, leaving an empty shell that stood there like an idiot, unable to function.

He released a soft rush of breath, and smiled whimsically. “I hadn’t realized the extent of your accomplishments. You’ve whetted my appetite. I’d love an omelet.”

The quiet words broke the spell they had been bound in, and Sophy set to work briskly. As she calmly broke eggs into a bowl, she was pleased the kitchen was a modern one, with a new gas cooker and icebox, even if, somehow, the room seemed smaller when Seth was in it. Certainly there was a sense of unreality in having him sit there, watching her prepare a midnight snack.

Seth seemed disinclined to small talk, content to sit in silence, regarding her with an enigmatic expression.

That steady, silent regard began to wield a strange effect on Sophy, making her feel awkward and unsure of herself. Her heart began an erratic thumping, and she felt hot one minute, chilly the next. A long breath escaped her lips, and she felt light-headed. When their gazes collided, she found she could not tear her eyes away from his.

Seth leaned his elbows on the table. If he didn’t know better he would say his wife’s fascination was oddly innocent and totally genuine. His white teeth glinted, and his eyes crinkled in sardonic amusement.

“A watched pot may never boil, my dear, but an unwatched omelet will always burn!”

Cheeks scarlet, Sophy lowered her lashes quickly. She found her husband had an unsettling effect. Disturbing. Making her a stranger to herself. Restless in a way that she didn’t like.

What she did like was the way Seth tucked into the fluffy omelet, oozing cheese. His Adam’s apple slid up and down as if he savored every mouthful.

In truth, Seth did. For several years he had been accustomed to camp fare, which, more often than not, consisted of basic army rations subsidized, on occasion, with a scraggy chicken or jackrabbit stew. The cook he employed had neither the expertise nor the desire to embark on any recipe more exciting than boiled meat and potatoes.

“I must commend you on your cooking, Sophy. That was delicious.” He scraped the last morsel off his plate.

“You ought to taste my coq au vin and my boeuf à la mode.”

“When did you learn to cook like that?”

“One of the many indulgences my father gave me was cooking lessons from a French chef.” Sophy knew she was gabbling, her tongue working faster than her brain. “Father paid Marcel’s passage from Paris on condition he stay with us for six months. Marcel stayed for a year, found himself an American bride and now owns a restaurant downtown.”

Seth arched one dark eyebrow. “You look like a bride yourself, all decked out in white, waiting for her husband.”

Instant warmth flooded Sophy’s cheeks. Suddenly she was painfully conscious of him, of his maleness, of all that this night could mean. She stood uncertainly. She did not speak, but simply looked at him, her eyes very wide and pleading in her small face. Her lips trembled.